I’ve been writing life stories since I was a distracted fourth grade student in Mrs. Edinger’s class. Multiplication tables couldn’t hold a candle to what was going on in my head. Since then I’ve published articles in numerous papers and am currently working on my first book. To visit my site, please click here.

Once upon a time there was a very young lady and a not-quite-as-young man (a scandal left for another story) that were carefree, adventurous and childless.On a whim, they decided to tour the country of Spain, and as was their manner, to tour it in full culinary detail.Of course, this dashing duo tackled with the small inconvenience of being broke and feared little finance would serve as a burden in their experience of food.

They were joined by other friends on this journey that took place in the heart of a scorching summer twenty years ago and together they all crammed into a tiny and dusty red Ford Fiesta and, listening to endless rounds of Chrissie Hynde’s “Brass in Pocket” and Mecano’s melancholic “Aire” explored their souls and the Iberian peninsula for a sultry five weeks filled with laughter, sights and, many “fixed menu” meals that where exquisite and reliably affordable, casting aside financial doubts.The experience left me, that very young lady, enamored with Spain, whose images and flavors have steadily nourished me over the years.

The trip began and culminated in La Plaza Mayor, the legendary square-turned-tourist attraction in Madrid famed for being the center for public beheadings back in its heyday.By 1989 this pastime was long gone, of course, and in its place stood clowns folding balloons for giddy children, men posing as Charlie Chaplin and heavyset women draped in clay personifying statues under the unforgiving heat. Nestled amongst stores selling Chinese-made plastic albañiques and sword replicas sat an inconspicuous space whose only connection to the outside world was a tiny window with a miniature blackboard scribbling the day’s dish, which was always the same thing:bocadillo de calamares (fried squid sandwich).Our noses had led us to this spot, our eyes saw the crowds lined up and reconfirmed the choice, and the price sang pretty in our light wallets, making it a done deal.Time and time again we sought excuses to return to this alcove and gobbled mounds of freshly fried squid rings crammed into warm crusty mini-baguettes doused with fresh ocean, crunchy sea salt and nothing else. It was a memory I carried and protected vehemently through the years.

So it seemed fitting that now, this young duo that had grown up a bit, married, and created a family head straight for La Plaza Mayor on their return trip to Spain. It was early June and the heat still jostled us, even after being Miami residents for almost fifteen years.Clowns and Chaplins still abounded as well as the outdoor cafes serving overpriced cold beer.We had come here with one purpose really and that was to recapture our carefree youth through the unforgettable bocadillo.Our long-time Madrid-based friend thought we were insane twenty years ago and still insane today: insane to head to this touristy spot and pay what we were paying for a beer that would be colder and cheaper two blocks away and certainly insane to brave the bocadillos of Plaza Mayor.

“Everyone knows you get Hepatitis from those.The grease here is from last century.Let’s go three blocks away, the best bocadillos, fresh calamares, pure olive oil, no worries”, he begged.Now, this is a guy that thrives on cheap eats, so I would be lying if I say I didn’t hesitate a bit. But the memory of youth and flavor drove us forth as our eyes scanned the perimeter of the square in search of that memorable little window.

And then we saw it off to the side.It was dark and dank and still had the scribbled little blackboard but the crowds where gone.My mate and I eyed each other suspiciously and in the silent ebb of mind language shared by soul mates conferred:

“No line, huh?Do we really want to venture there?We’ve come a long way, filled our wallets a bit since then, might it not possibly be a wiser move to hit the tapas bar around the bend?”

It all happened within the span of three blinks.And even those three blinks where futile, as we both knew the answer:Yes. Undeniably, undoubtedly yes.We will forge onward and ahead. To the abandoned window that housed a time filled with adventure and promise and fun, and we think, good food.

Our friend shook his head and moved to the side.Our children smelled distrust and graciously declined.But my mate and I pressed forward, approached the tiny hole and rattled off our order: “Dos bocadillos, por favor.”

They arrived too quickly. We quietly acknowledged this as the first bad sign.No time to heat up the oil, gently batter the squid and fry.But there we were, holding our youth in our calloused hands, hands that had locked together over twenty years ago and traveled the world, filling our hearts and bellies with love, food and adventure. So we did what we do best and flung ourselves forward, creating a new memory, we took a bite of our bocadillo in unison, with our children apprehensively looking on and our friend looking away, and as we both took that first anticipated bite we realized it was disgusting; truly and utterly disgusting.

When something is that disgusting it is hard to describe why.Way too salty.Way too greasy.Way too old.Way wrong.And where someone would normally spit it out and spew in despair we did what only lunatics as us do and took another bite (again in unison) just to make sure it truly was that disgusting, in ghoulish curiosity and desperate need to verify our past, for now the questions loomed in our mind:

Was it always that gross?Did we have no taste back then?Where we that desperate?

I can tell you that was the end of that.The bocadillos ended up in the trash after our giggling fit subsided.Our children looked confused and our friend was vindicated:

“See, I told you. Hepatitis, amigos, hepatitis.”

And with that we let the memory alone, clasped our greasy hands together and held one hand out for each one of our kids to grab and form a chain as together, we moved forward, laughing our youth away as we headed towards the tapas bar around the bend.

Heat a large saucepan or deep-fat fryer with oil, over medium heat. For the saucepan, the oil should come halfway up the pan.
If you are using a deep-fat fryer heat the oil to 350F.

While the oil is heating, mix the flour, cayenne, paprika, salt and pepper in a large bowl. In a smaller bowl, beat the eggs.

Drop in the individual pieces of squid into the flour mixture and coat.
Then dip the floured squid into the eggs and then carefully drop into the hot oil.
Fry for 2-3 minutes, until golden.
You may have to do this in several batches.
Remove from the oil and briefly drain on paper towels. Add lime zest and additional sea salt, to taste, and place into fresh mini-baguettes.
If you want, you can add aioli or mayonnaise to the bread and douse with fresh lime juice.

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